


Hawkestrider

by zombiebrainsoup



Category: Dragon Age II, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 18:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2438804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiebrainsoup/pseuds/zombiebrainsoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marian has a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad day at work, and just wants to go home and play video games. Little does she know that her life is about to get a little more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this pairing idea when discussing World of Warcraft with my sibling. They were explaining to me how they got a specific Hawkstrider mount on their first drop, and as I was reading a DA fanfic at the time, I emphasised "Hawke"strider.
> 
> My sibling then responded "Strider, like Aragorn?" And I was like, haha lol sure k
> 
> And thus this pairing was born. We decided that it had to be a World of Warcraft- style AU.

I tapped my finger impatiently against the side of the monitor, belying the aggravation behind the false grin plastered across my face. _Maker’s breath,_ I thought to myself. I had made the call to manchester for a simple price check _five sodding minutes ago._ How long does it take to double check an SPL ticket? I started with a jolt. Maker’s breath? I was using swears from video game lore now?

_Man, I think I’ve been playing World of Thedas_ _too much lately_ , I thought with chagrin, and grimaced inwardly.

  I was always the obsessive kind, and World of Thedas had become my most recent obsession. Over the past few weeks I had clocked in an embarrassingly high number of hours playing. Not that I would ever admit that it was embarrassingly large, of course. Besides, it was holiday time, and other than working I didn’t have much to do. All of my friends had gone back home to visit their families, or were too busy hanging out with each-other to spend time with me.

  So after work, I would grab a blanket and wrap myself up in a cocoon in front of the computer and spend hours upon hours minmaxing and reading up on lore. In retrospect, I think I actually spent more time reading up about the game than actually playing. And apparently, I’d even taken up swearing like the characters do in-game.  


  I snorted and the customer raised an eyebrow questioningly. Or was it, in inquisition?

  I fumbled around words, mumbling something about how a large department store like ours was the epitome of a bureaucracy, and nothing could ever be done simply. My explanation seemed to assuage the customer, and I went back to tapping the side of the monitor whilst awaiting a return call from the manchester department. There was quite a queue starting to form behind the customer I was serving, because the higher-ups, in their infinite wisdom, had decided that it would be a good way to cut costs by having a limited number of staff on, despite the fact that it was one of the busiest times in our week.

  Protocol demanded that I calmly and politely ask the customer to step aside so that I may serve someone else while waiting for manchester to get their nug-humping shit together, but protocol be damned to the blasted _void_. I was supposed to have clocked off _fifteen rutting minutes ago_ , but my replacement had still yet to arrive. I wanted to go home, maybe a decent meal of something other than corn chips and salsa for once, change out of my wholly unflattering work uniform, and have a shower. Preferably in that order, too.

  But Andraste’s Grace was not with me today, it seemed.

  I opened my mouth to apologise for what seemed the umpteenth time to the customer in front of me, but was rudely interrupted by a horrible, blaring “blargh” sound that signified that someone was attempting to call my register. I noticed before I picked up that it wasn’t manchester calling me, but the homewares manager.

  “Register 3,” I said in my most appropriately asinine tone.  
 

  “Yeah, it turns out that those sheets are from last year’s stock. Just give ‘em to the customer for $10 or so. Reason code 6,” came a brusque voice before hanging up.  
 

  A truly genuine smile came upon my face because _finally_ , the Maker had heard me, and _finally_ the situation had been resolved.  I explained the resolution to the customer, facilitated the rest of the transaction, and was about to sign off when my phone blared again. I furrowed my brow in consternation before picking up. The supervisor on shift always scared me a little, and judging by the fact that it was now _eighteen minutes_ past the end of my shift, I figured that no good could come of this conversation.

  “Marian,” came the slightly distorted but still vaguely disapproving voice. “Grace just called and said she missed her bus so she’ll be about half an hour late. You mind finishing up the rest of the hour?”

  Did I mind? _Did I mind?_ I had a raid to get to! It was the first time that my guild was going to attempt the new tier’s content! I had stayed up until odd hours of the morning, and spent the scant few minutes of my break, reading up on the encounters. Andraste’s overgrown armpit hair, I _minded!_

  “No, it’s okay,” my traitorous mouth lied.

  I looked at the time on the voice-over-IP phone dock. Thirty-nine minutes to go. _I can do this._ Having worked at the aforementioned department store for nearly two years, I had long since figured out that it took, on average, three minutes to serve each customer. That meant that I had approximately thirteen more customers to serve.  


  Customers one and two were served without too much fuss. Then customer three came along with the testers from the cosmetics department and I had to reach for the the much aggrieved phone. Again.

  I attempted to call the representative from the cosmetics department. No answer. I attempted to call the representative from the nearby ladies wear department. No answer still. I took a deep breath, attempted to smile towards the customer in a consolatory fashion, but it just ended up as a grimace, and called my supervisor. _I can’t do this._  


  “Hey, could you please page someone from cosmetics for me?”

   After a brief game of phone tag with the cosmetics department, customer three was served. Then customer four was the type that I dreaded most. Teenagers. I barely suppressed a shudder.

  _Blargh_ went the phone. My supervisor told me to go down to the lay-by department to take their half-hour break, which would mean that I would be finishing ten more minutes later than the hour that I was asked to stay behind for. One again, my mouth betrayed me, and my response was a docile “sure”.

  At this rate, judging by how my day was going thus far, I would also end up missing my bus and therefore be late to the raid. Andaste’s dimpled butt cheeks. I wished that whoever thought up the concept of layby-ing items would choke on a bronto cock. I snorted at that mental image and a little girl who I was passing looked at me strangely.

  “Mommy,” she began to innocently inquire; “what’s a bronto cock?”

  I picked up my pace before my blighted day could get any worse, strutting my way across the store. Of course, according to Murphy’s law, I encountered two customers who needed help finding their way around before finally making my way to my destination. I nodded to my friend behind the lay-by counter, mumbled about how I was there to take their break, and made a dash for the area at the back to hide from any potential customers.

  Once safe from prying eyes, and glancing around to ensure that I was alone, I pulled my phone out of my bra “pocket”. I glared at it when I saw that it was oscillating between no signal and one bar, and prayed to the Maker that my text would go through. Maker’s breath, go through it did. Even the response from Varric, our raid leader, came through too.

  _omg_ , my text began. _having literally the worst day at work. prolly going 2 b late 4 raid._  


  _It’s okay, Hawke,_ the reply began. Ever since Varric found out that my surname was Hawke that was what he called me, rather than my character name “Kirkwallchamp.” It was a homage to my favorite wallop team. Lame, I know, but I was never very good at making up character names.

  _Jnr. said that he couldn’t make it either, so we’ll need to pick up another anyways._

  I groaned and banged my head on the wrapping bench in front of me. My brother and I never really saw eye-to-eye, but Maker’s breath, _could he game_. I gave up counting the number of times that Carver had carried us through a boss encounter. Whenever we had to ask for some random player to replace him, it never ended up well.

  My shoulders began to shake with silent sobs. Sod customers. Sod my colleagues. Sod everything about Maker forsaken sodding _retail work._ I just wanted to go home and unwind and maybe poke fun of Aveline’s quaint dating traditions, maybe shamelessly flirt with ‘Bela. Blast it all into the void.

  That’s how my friend found me when they came back from their break, a few minutes early. Shamelessly sobbing into my arms behind the back of Layby, mumbling eccentric obscenities about brontos and nugs. I was so deeply wallowing in self-pity that I nearly missed the magic words “… said you can go now.”

  My reaction was almost comical, in a way. I instantly stopped sobbing and perked up, pumping my fist into the air, a huge shit-eating grin on my face. Things were finally starting to look up for me _at last._ Or at least they were, until I stopped by the break room and saw that the vending machine was out of order. 

  My one desire, okay, one of my _immediate_ desires, was for a caffeine and sugar hit before braving public transport. I sighed deeply and grumbled and groused all the way through collecting my belongings and walking towards the bus stop. It seemed that the Maker had finally taken some pity on me as the bus did not arrive late, nor did it arrive early. It arrived precisely when it was meant to.

  However this meant that I had to look like a deranged lunatic and make a mad last-minute sprint towards the closing doors of the bus.

  “Hold up,” I breathlessly shouted, winded from the exertion of the only time I had physically exercised that week. It seemed that the man getting on the bus at the time had heard me, as the doors of the bus remained open to grant me passage.

  I nodded at the bus driver in thanks while I dredged around in my backpack adorned with nerdy patches and badges for my wallet, and I spared a glance for the magnanimous soul who prevented me from missing the bus. My cursory appraisal of him revealed that he was culturing the “carefully unkempt” look, complete with scraggly stubble.

  In retrospect, he was kinda cute, but I was too preoccupied to appreciate him fully.

  “Thanks,” I huffed out, still winded from what felt like an olympic hundred metre dash. His eyes twinkled with mirth as he nodded his response.

  I lurched when the bus pulled forward, and ended up toppling over and falling face first into his chest. My eyes bugged out a bit when I felt the way in which his chest was corded with wiry muscle, but it was mostly due to the embarrassment of invading his personal space in such an intimate manner.

  I mumbled an apology and scampered to one of the only free seats at the back of the bus. Much to my chagrin, my saviour-turned-tormentor followed, and sat beside me. He offered me his hand in greeting.  


  “Strider.”

  “S-so-sorry?” I oh-so-eloquently stuttered. I could feel my cheeks heating as they flushed with embarrassment. Andraste’s floral shampoo, I swear I’ve never had such an embarrassing day in my life before.

  “I’m Strider,” he helpfully clarified for me.

  “Oh,” was my eloquently articulated response. He gazed intensely at me for a moment and I was temporarily mesmerised by the depths of his limpid cerulean pools before I remembered my manners.

  “I’m Marian,” I supplied lamely, gesturing at my name-tag awkwardly emblazoned across the breast of my work shirt. “Thanks again for, you know, helping me with the bus.”

  “Sure.”

  “Hey, uh, sorry to be rude, but I need to make a few texts. But… thanks again, I guess.”

  I then devoted myself to my phone, partially to ignore the way that his thigh was casually pressed against mine and the way that the heat pooled in my belly.

  g _uess who’s finally on her way home? this girl. h_ _ow goes the search for pug's?_ was my first text to Varric.  


  _Good to hear. I was about to send out a search party. Still one short_ , was his response.

  Search party? Even though he lived on the opposite coast from me, I didn’t doubt that he was actually capable of sending one out for me. Varric seemed to have a remarkably complex, and extended, web of connections. At times I joked with him about the reason for it being that he was in the mafia. At times he jokingly responded that it was true. At least, I think it was in jest.

_Do I have time to grab dinner? Or will I have to subsist on partially-hydrogenated carbohydrates?_  
    
 _Grab some proper food. We’ll wait._

  I was so enraptured in my conversation with Varric that I never noticed the lack of pressure on my thigh until I got up to get off the bus.

  _Huh_ , I thought to myself. _Strider must have gotten off already._ I snorted a little immaturely at that. I wouldn’t have minded exchanging contact details to actually get him off.

  I power walked from the bus stop to my apartment complex and started tapping my foot impatiently when the elevator wasn’t automagically at the ground floor. When it finally arrived and the doors opened, my stomach let out a shamefully loud growl. The man that I recognised as one of my neighbours, Cullen, I think his name was, raised an amused eyebrow and I shrugged in chagrin.

  As he stepped out, I was stepping in, and I accidentally brushed his rear-end with one of my hands.

  “Sorry,” we both said at the same time.

  “No, it was my fault,” I mumbled, not looking him in the eyes. But the elevator doors closed before he could respond. 

  I could swear that I had accidentally stepped into a wormhole in the space-time continuum because of how awkwardly long the elevator ride to my floor seemed. It was even more uncomfortable than the elevator rides in the game _Mass Impact._ My stomach was grumbling almost continuously now, and I was grateful that I was the only one in the elevator.

  Once I reached my floor, I all but sprinted through the hallway to my apartment and fumbled with my keys before managing to successfully unlock the door. If I was in a better mood I would have found my inability to “stick it in” amusing. I didn’t bother to kick off my shoes before I rushed into the kitchen, filled up the kettle and set it boiling.

  I didn’t have the patience to deal with anything that actually required preparation, so it was ramen noodles for the nth night in a row. I quickly sculled a glass of water to try and take the edge off of my hunger, and nearly dropped my glass when my phone went off and startled me.

  _Operation: Hard in Hightown is a go,_ was the cryptic message.

  Hard in Hightown? Wait, what?

  _Colour me confuzzled,_ was my reply.

  _Wicked Grace has an operation in place to be the best wingmen ever and get you laid._

  _Fill me in on the details over mumble, I’ll be on in a sec._  

  I barely waited for my noodles to cook properly before snarfing them down, the scalding hot water burning my tongue and throat. The empty carbohydrates did nothing to assuage my hunger, and I resigned myself to needing to break out the corn chips and salsa later. I was feeling so sorry for myself that I even pulled out a bag of sour gummy worms and pulled my “rainy day” vodka out of the freezer before trudging along like a woman on a mission to the computer.


	2. Chapter 2

 “Hey, Daisy?” came a gravelly voice over the headset. Our mumble channel had been mostly silent up until that point, save for the constant _clack-clack-clack_ of Anders spamming his keybinding for Flash Heal because he _still_ hadn’t gotten around to buying himself a headset. This was a particularly intense encounter, and everybody had their noses to their screens, concentrating on mechanics. Or maybe that was just me. One doesn’t simply gain the title of _Champion_ if one has a blasé attitude towards the game.

  Needless to say, my focus was totally disrupted, and in my startled state, my knee jerked up and hit the underside of my desk.

  “Andraste’s hairy _nipples,_ ” I shouted to no-one. I pushed my chair away from the desk, and began nursing my rapidly bruising knee, totally ignorant of the fact that we were engaging a _tier boss_.  


  “Yes, Varric?” came the reply in a girlish lilt, totally unaware of my turmoil.

  “You're standing in the fire,” followed by a deep chuckle.

  “Oh, thank you. I hadn’t noticed. I was wondering why my health was going down so quickly without even being in blood presence.”

  Anders mumbled something about blood presence not even being the correct presence for her specialisation. Fenris grumbled about how it’s not like Merrill being in the correct presence would have made much of a difference as he was the one carrying the team’s DPS. Both Varric and Sebastian grunted their offense at Fenris’ statement. 

  Despite the cacophony that the mumble channel had become, one voice sounded out over the rest.  “Hawke,” came the brusque tone of Aveline, our main tank, “Maker’s breath, Hawke, will you _taunt the boss_?”

  I hastened to shuffle back towards my gaming rig as Aveline’s health was rapidly declining. When I moved my cursor over her portrait and saw how many DoT stacks were on her, it hardly surprised me that Anders was having difficulty keeping her up. I was _just_ too slow to aggro the boss away from her, and Aveline died. Well, her character anyway. I’m pretty sure that I was the one who would die in actuality as Aveline murdered me over her exorbitant repair fees.

  “A nug’s ass could tank better than you, Hawke,” Anders groused. “My battle rez is still on cool down, so it’s a wipe.”

  Everyone let out a sigh simultaneously, and I hesitantly pressed my finger to the push-to-talk button.

  “Sorry, folks, but I was taken hostage by a gang of bank robbers and the cops gave chase. We got away... but I caused a crash. When I came to, I'd lost my memory. An ex-con picked me up, mistook me for a fugitive, and shipped me to Istanbul. There I met some Afghan raiders who took me to steal some Russian warheads. But our truck hit a mine in Tajikistan. I survived, took to the hills, and became a Mujaheddin to eat borscht all my life in a hat like a tea cozy.”

  Varric wolf-whistled at my attempted platitudes, but I could tell that Aveline wasn’t impressed.

  “Hawke,” she began, “I don’t know why you insisted on tanking when I said that Donnic couldn’t make it. We could have picked one up when we picked up the other guy.”

  “He has a name, you know. Not everyone is a woman-shaped battering ram,” Isabela pestered.

  “What’s with your name anyway? Are you Spanish or something?” Anders inquired.

  Spanish? What kind of deranged assumption was that? On what premise was it based on? I hovered my cursor over the strange ranger’s corpse and saw that his name was Aragorn, and it all clicked into place.

  “Ah, no. It’s… it’s actually a lore name. It’s Elvish for something or the other,” came the response from a strangely familiar voice.

  “See, that’s a cool name. Everyone else has much more well-thought out names than I do. Kirkwallchamp is utterly childish and lame,” I interjected, attempting to defend the honour of this stranger whom I had only just met.

  “Okay, Junior, I don’t know how you managed to emulate Hawke’s voice so well, but leave it alone. Your sister can besmirch her own good name without your involvement,” Varric chuckled.

  I snorted, “Hardy har har, funny man. Let’s see how you laugh when I steal into your house in the dead of night and wax the pelt of chest hair that you’re so fond of.”

  I didn’t even need to be on video chat to see him cringe, I could hear it in Varric’s voice when he next spoke over mumble.

  “Okay, okay. Easy, Hawke. I know you’re just grumpy because we wiped on the encounter. We’ll try again, kill the nug muncher, and then call it quits for the night so that you can get to bed on time.”

  “Hawke, your corpse is too far out of range for me to rez without aggroing the boss so you’re gonna have to walk back,” Anders interrupted.

  I sighed. Today was _not_ my day.

  “It’s okay, Hawke, was it? I can stealth around to where you are and then use my jumper cables on you,” came the dulcet tones of Aragorn.

  “Oh, would you? My hero,” I sighed wistfully.

  The second attempt at the encounter passed without much incident. Many expletives were shared, but without incident.

  “Alright kids, I don’t know about you, but that encounter nearly made my chest hair go grey from the stress. How about we call it quits?” Varric suggested.

  “I think I’m with Varric, I’m on patrol duty tomorrow so I can’t nap while pretending to do paperwork,” was Aveline’s response.

  “Eh, I think I’ll stay on for a little longer. I haven’t done any of my dailies yet today, and after work I could use a breather,” I muttered, half to myself.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Hawke! If I had known, I wouldn’t have done them myself so I could do them with you. Well, I suppose that I could still help you, but there wouldn’t be much purpose to it,” came Merrill’s helpful addition.

  “I myself haven’t completed them yet either, perhaps we could do them together?”

  “Well aren’t you useful? A pocket rezzer and then offering to help with my dailies? I think I might keep you,” I said in response to Aragorn’s offer.

  I had lost track of the time by when we had completed all of our dailies. There was an easy camaraderie that formed between Aragorn and I. We exchanged quips and interesting tidbits of lore, and suddenly the gruelling experience of “collect 20 nug hearts” and “kill 8 genlocks, 4 hurlocks, 2 shrieks and 1 ogre” wasn’t so depressing. 

  I also learned a lot about the person behind Aragorn. His mother died when he was young and he was raised with some distant, estranged relatives before moving away when he was able to. He rarely visited them anymore though, because they always tried to force responsibilities on him that he didn’t want.

  I suppose he also learned a lot about me. Despite my general social ineptitude, I managed to talk to him about how my father had died of lung cancer a few years ago, how my brother was a bit of a tosser but I still loved him and my sister to bits, and how I disapproved of my mother’s new boyfriend Quentin.

  It wasn’t until he casually asked about my love life that I transformed back into Captain Socially Awkward.

  “No, I uhh. No. The last time that I had anyone was my girlfriend Athenril, and she was about a year ago now.”

  There was silence for a long time before he replied with a simple “oh.”

  “Yeah, speaking of ‘oh’, oh Maker’s breath, is that the time? I need to hit the hay. I promised my mother that I’d help fix her internet tomorrow… or, well, uh, later today.” It was a lie. A bald, shamefaced lie. But he didn’t know that.  


  “Oh, sure. Hey, uh. It was nice… meeting you?”

  “Yeah, it was great. Uh, you’re great. At DPS I mean. You’re more than welcome to join our raid team permanently. I know that Varric’s the raid leader and all, but I’m the guild leader so I guess I supersede him in terms of authority?” My voice got progressively higher and higher in pitched and all but cracked on the last few words.

  “I’d… like that. Would you add me to your friends list so that you can keep me posted about raids?”

  “Of course! Actually, better yet, the guild has a Mybook page. If you wanted to add me on it, I could invite you to the group and that way it would be easier to stay in contact.”

  The following silence was deafening. Did I come on too strong? Shit. I think that sounded like I was hitting on him. Actually, I think that I _was_ hitting on him, in a crazy, roundabout sort of way. Shit, shit, _shit._ I’m pretty sure that a bronto’s tail would have more social grace than me.

  “I, uh. I don’t normally add anyone that I don’t actually know-“

  “No worries!” I cut in, trying to save face.

  “-but I think that I can make an exception for you.”

  Oh. _Oh._ Well, tickle me pink and call me Andraste.

  “Sure-“ My voice definitely _did_ crack on that. “My Mybook url is the same as my character name, actually. Super original, I know, but it should make me easy to find. My profile picture is, uh, a stick figure with a sword decapitating an incongruently detailed dragon.”

  “Okay. Well, sleep well. I’m sure we’ll chat again soon.”

  “Sure.” Sure? _Sure?_ Since when was my normally extensive vocabulary so limited? I quickly logged out of the game, and out of mumble, and briefly alt-tabbed to Mybook to double check to see if Aragorn had sent me a friend request before crawling into bed and crying myself to sleep over my infinite awkwardness. 

  I was momentarily confused when the name that came up on my new contact request was Strider, not Aragorn. Then the sovereign dropped. Shit, shit, _Shit._

  I hesitantly accepted, then went to go creep his page. Surely it’s not the same Strider that I met earlier? How could it be? Sure, Strider isn’t a very… common name, but the world couldn’t be _that_ small. Could it?

  None of his profile pictures were actually of him, just album covers from bands that I think were death metal, and there were no photos that he was tagged in to confirm or deny. Somehow he must have known that I was on his page, because a message window from him popped up.

  Strider: _What happened to bed?_

  Marian: _I am in bed,_ I lied. _Just on my phone. I’ll add you to the guild page and then actually go to sleep._

  Strider: _Okay._

_Hey, I realised that there aren’t any pictures of me on here. I don’t tend to log on that often. It’s not an issue, is it?_

Marian: _No, no. Not at all! I mean, I didn’t add you for personal reasons. It’s not like it matters if you’re attractive or not._

  Andraste’s frilly underwear, Marian. Just… stop talking before you permanently chase him off.

  Strider: _Here I was, ready to take a terrible bathroom “selfie” for you. ;)_

  Oh. Oh my. I had to begin fanning myself because I swear that the temperature just raised a few degrees in my room.

  Marian: _A little you show me yours, I show you mine? :P_

  Strider: _Yeah, something like that._

  Marian: _As long as you don’t mind waiting a few hours. I need my beauty sleep._

  Strider: _I doubt that. You’re always beautiful._

  Never before had I been so grateful for an online instant messaging medium. I probably could have kept half of Canada warm over winter with the heat from my blushing cheeks.

  Strider: _Hello?_

_Did you finally go to bed, then?_

_Well, goodnight. It was nice meeting you again today._

  Again? He couldn’t have meant… could he? No, he probably just meant first on World of Thedas and then on Mybook. Right?

  I dropped my head on my keyboard and groaned.

  Marian: _akjbjkbjwebjewj3wwewefi3i394994443 4341h3tuh34ihtgjdkskj3293_

Strider: _huh?_

  Marian: _Oh, I uh, hit my funny bone. Not very humorous, is it?_

_I’ll send you that group invitation before I forget. Again. So you don’t think that I added you under false pretences or anything._

  And I did. And then I immediately shut down my computer, and crawled into bed to hide underneath my blankets. Ugh.

  I truly am a hopeless cause. I don’t think that even all of _Wicked Grace_ could ever hope to achieve anything through Operation: Hard in Hightown. Their idealistic pursuit was sadly misguided. It was my destiny to have 27 cats and live off of microwavable meals. My _destiny._

  My destiny also included never logging on to Mybook, World of Thedas, or catching my bus ever again. I think I still had a bicycle at my mother’s house. Maybe I could start riding that around instead.

  _But what would I do with all of my spare time?_ I thought to myself, and groaned. I guess I would just have to suck it up.


End file.
